Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu

by Constantine, Storm

  “Architectural style ‘early maniac,’” muttered Fen, “What were they? Sun worshippers?”

  They found a sound room downstairs and a wood-burning stove with a hot plate. They settled Pale Fawn into a battered easy chair and wrapped her up in rugs. Raven scouted around for firewood and got a fire going. Fen went through their rations.

  “I reckon we can do better than dried fruit and fish,” he said and disappeared outside.

  He returned a short while later. “Abandoned restaurant,” he said holding up a cooking pot full of tinned vegetables and bottled water. “Chairs and tables strewn everywhere and covered with blown sand but a very well stocked larder.” He’d even found tea and most importantly a tin opener.

  “He’s a hunter, this new lover of yours,” said Pale Fawn. Raven gave her a look. “It’s alright,” she said with a slight smile, “I know.” Raven left it at that.

  First they made tea and then a thick soup from the vegetables. They had to rouse Pale Fawn to get her to eat and then left her to sleep again, stoking up the fire to make it burn all night and made themselves as comfortable as possible, wrapped up in rugs on the wooden floor.

  At dawn Fen made another raid on the restaurant and brought back breakfast. Then they set out again, this time on foot, towards the other side of the island. A sandy track led them away from the settlement and eastwards once more.

  Oleander fringed the edge of the dense woodland; in spring there would be a profusion of pink and white blossoms. In the forest itself, vast stands of evergreen pines stabilised the shifting sand and interspersed between the dark pines, leafless oaks were draped thick with Spanish moss, the bearded lichen hanging from the high tree branches and reaching to the forest floor.

  It seemed to Raven as if the island were shrouding a secret, keeping it safe from prying eyes.

  An hour’s walk brought them to the western shore and a tall, auburn-haired woman standing on the beach. Behind her was a small harbour and moored there, a sailing ship.

  “You are welcome,” she said. “We’ve been waiting.”

  “You’re the voice that’s been calling me?” asked Pale Fawn.

  “I am,” affirmed the woman. “We sensed you on the ethers, you and the child you carry. The child is special, and she and you need protection. Now is not the time for such singular individuals to be abroad. It is not safe. The world of Wraeththu is young and far from stable. You must be hidden for now. That is what we offer you.”

  The woman turned to Raven, “You are the child’s father?” he nodded. “And you are now Sulh? You chose wisely; they are one of the more enlightened tribes. I am sorry you will be unable to join Pale Fawn at this time. It is imperative that who we are and our homelands remain a secret.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said as Raven began to protest, “Pale Fawn will be well cared for. And the fears you have, about the future of women in this brave new world of ours? Women shall have a place, but this young culture is not ready to face that yet.”

  “I trust her,” Pale Fawn said, turning to Raven, “and I want to go with her. Will you trust me?”

  Raven put an arm around her and kissed her forehead. He did not trust himself to speak.

  Throughout this interchange Fen had been silent but he had been watching the woman intently.

  “Have you ever travelled to Alba Sulh?” he asked, “And are we to know your name?”

  The woman gave a wry smile. “In my work I have travelled widely and for now you may call me ‘Morgana,’ although in time you will come to know me by a different name.”

  Fen snorted slightly. The woman ignored him.

  “We must embark,” she said. “The seas are treacherous at this time of year, so we only have a short window of opportunity to sail., That’s is why we had to get you here quickly.” They walked with her to the small harbour and paused by the gangplank.

  The woman turned to Raven. “Worry not. One day you will see Pale Fawn again and visit our homeland, but for now your path lies with the Sulh.”

  Raven took Pale Fawn in his arms and held her tight.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Come and visit. One day. And you,” she said turning to kiss Fen on the cheek, “take care of my Raven for me.”

  Fen kissed her back. “Of course.”

  She went on board with the woman and stood at the bow as the ship slipped away. For a while she stood there watching them and Raven stood, Fen’s hand on his shoulder, watching his past and future sail away. Then Pale Fawn moved from the stern to the bows, setting her face towards her future.

  Fen turned Raven around and walked him back to the forest path.

  “Come on, Mountain Boy, time to go home.”

  “Where’s home?” The first words Raven had been able to utter for a while and he nearly choked on them.

  “Home’s where your people are,” Fen replied, giving him a squeeze, “and right now my home’s with you.”

  Raven turned back to watch the ship slipping over the horizon. “We still have a long way to go,” he said.

  Fen tugged on his hand, “Yeah... ‘the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but we have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep’1 – Come on Raven,” he smiled, “this is just the beginning.”

  And Raven smiled and allowed himself to be led away.

  1 Quote from ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost

  The Rune-Throwing

  Kristi Lee

  Hroth focused on his breathing: deep inhalations through the nose and exhalations through barely parted lips. The frigid air burned as it drew up his nostrils. Steam from his breath blended into the fog that rolled and shifted. The beach was eerily quiet, muffled, except for the soft lapping of the water on the rocks of the nearby shore. The fog was so dense and soupy, Hroth couldn’t even see the bay, though he was only sitting a stone’s throw from the water. While he didn’t expect to hear anything else aside from the occasional cry of a seagull, his ears were beginning to play tricks on him. Had he just heard something? Was someone there? It was his third day of fasting in solitude as part of a communal meditation, and the line between reality and imagination had become as insubstantial as the folding mist around him.

  The rasping croak of a raven, unmistakably real, made Hroth look up reflexively, but he couldn’t see anything through the blanketed white that surrounded him. Seconds later the distinctive black bird swooped in, landed off to his right and immediately began preening its wing. Hroth watched it impassively, knowing it to be his familiar. Roc was a friend who had been with him since his earliest days as a har. He gazed at the bird steadily, acknowledging their shared past, before he closed his eyes, waiting to hear what Roc had to say.

  “The wise ones are pleased with your journey,” Roc croaked. “You shall tell your story to one you have not yet met.”

  Hroth’s eyes flew open. “Soon?”

  “It is not for me to say when. But when you do, you should take him under your wing, as I have you.”

  “Under my wing, indeed,” Hroth said ruefully.

  Hroth himself was no seer, though his friend Hansggedir fancied he read his scrying cards with accuracy. Only when the raven spoke to him about the spirits and their will did he believe he was given a true glimpse into the future. Roc made the raven version of a clucking sound, hopped over to Hroth’s closed bag and began pecking at it.

  “I’ve been fasting, so I don’t have any treats for you,” Hroth apologized. “If I’d known you would visit during my meditation, I’d have brought you something.”

  “No matter,” Roc rasped in his gravelly avian voice. “The time for the new ones is come. Go and prepare yourself as you always do.”

  Hroth nodded toward the raven, which cawed and flew off. He closed his eyes and counted down, thirty-two precisely deep inhalations and exhalations, before he again opened his eyes and yawned. With as fluid a movement as he could muster, he stood and stretched, then bowed at the waist toward the sea. He murmured his thanks
to the Aghama for the time of quiet and peace, and cast a few thoughts toward the sea spirits, as though skipping rocks across a lake. After gathering his few belongings from his vigil, he slowly walked up the rocky beach to the path that would take him to Freygard and his kinshar.

  He realized he was gritting his teeth and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t so bad to feel like a freakish pariah, or so he tried to convince himself. Hansggedir, faithful, loyal friend that he was, ensured that he became neither a dry leaf due to lack of aruna nor fell into despair. Rune-throwings were hard on Hroth. Already he was leery of being with the other Freyhellans even in their modest number, of hearing whispers and looks of fearful respect. For once he wanted to blend in, to be chosen. Just once he wanted his rune stone to be selected, to complete the rite of inception with a new har. Damn Roc for getting his hopes up. The last thing he wanted to do was revisit that nightmarish day, much less have to share it with a jelly-legged har barely recovered from his althaia, all senses screaming for aruna. He sighed.

  Back in his modest home, Hroth built a fire, tending it until it crackled merrily in the hearth. After heating water for a hot bath, he thoroughly washed his hair. His thick tresses were his one vanity, though the golden colour was the same as nearly every other har in Freyhella. One of the humans he’d seen whose althaia must be complete had dark russet hair, the sides shorn, as was their custom before inception. Hroth had gone on his vigil to be with them in spirit, and he was anxious to see them in their transformed state, especially given his familiar’s instructions.

  Once clothed in a woollen dressing gown, he sent a message via mind touch to Hansggedir. Are you up?

  Yes! Hansggedir replied at once. I’m not a slug. You obviously have me confused with Sveinn. Hroth could hear the laughter in his friend’s mind voice. I’m glad you’re back. The rune-throwing will be at dusk.

  So I assumed. Will you come braid my hair for the occasion?

  Of course. I’ll be there shortly.

  Smiling at the thought of seeing him, Hroth padded around his small house, hanging a kettle above the flames to make a pot of tea. To salve his pride, he wore a ceremonial cape made of silver fox to each ritual at the Hall of Voices. While it was on his mind, he retrieved it, draping it over a chair in his bedroom. He’d just finished some smoked fish and tea-soaked bread when Hansggedir knocked on the door.

  “It’s open!” Hroth called out. A wave of cold air rushed in, ebbing once the door closed again. Hansggedir’s tall form appeared in the kitchen, his eyes sparkling.

  “You can call on me for more than my plaiting skills, you know,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I know, and I do, so don’t pretend otherwise.” Hroth smiled and lifted his face to receive his friend’s kisses on each cheek. “Not today. There’s always a chance that I’ll be chosen for one of the newest hara.”

  “The odds are stacked against you,” Hansggedir observed, plucking a piece of sweetbread off of Hroth’s plate.

  “It’s not odds, it’s the choice of the spirits. But thanks for reminding me that I’ve never been deemed worthy.”

  Hansggedir looked abashed. “That’s not what I meant!” he insisted. “It’s that there aren’t many inceptees. I know you and your self-abasements only too well. I’d never insinuate that it’s anything about you as a har that’s kept you from being selected. Honestly,” he grumbled, hitting Hroth a bit roughly on the back of the head before leaning over to kiss the same spot. “Quit taking yourself so damn seriously, no matter what that raven tells you. Where’s your brush?”

  Hroth pointed at the other end of the table. After popping the bread in his mouth, Hansggedir picked up the brush and came to stand behind him, brushing through the waist-length hair.

  “And your ties?”

  “Oh. My bedroom.”

  As Hansggedir loped off, Hroth called after him, “There are a few raven feathers. Bring those, too.”

  Nearly half an hour passed as they chatted. Hansggedir created several circlets of braids, intertwining leather strips and at the end, placing the raven feathers over Hroth’s left ear.

  “Exquisite,” Hansggedir sighed appreciatively at his work.

  Hroth let out a low laugh. “Thank you. I’m almost glad I can’t do it myself.” He stood up. “Let’s go to the rune-throwing, even though it makes me uncomfortable being around so many hara.”

  Hansggedir made a noise of discontent.

  “Aghama help any of them if you get chosen. Where’s your cape?”

  “On the chair in my room.”

  Hroth went into his bathroom to evaluate Hansggedir’s work in his modest looking-glass. It was indeed intricate and to be admired, though hara always did so from a distance.

  “You look stunning, as always. Come away from that mirror!” Hansggedir joked, and Hroth found it in himself to smile as he left the room.

  “I’m afraid my vanity didn’t go away when I became har,” he admitted, allowing Hansggedir to help him put on the fox cape. “Though I don’t see myself as the catch I once was. Nohar else does, either.”

  “We all have our flaws. Yours is just more difficult to hide.”

  “Try impossible.”

  “Oh, Hroth.” Hansggedir shook his head. “Of all days, today the focus won’t be on you. You’re revered and beautiful. What you’re missing cannot possibly detract from that. Come on, don’t brood over it.”

  “Oh! The fire.” Hroth gestured at his fireplace.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Once Hansggedir had tossed water on the logs, the two friends went out into the crisp air of late afternoon and down the road to the Hall of Voices, greeting other hara along the way. These rituals were becoming few and far between since the human population had been morbidly decimated by plague and disease. Everyhar in Freygard took great joy in welcoming the few humans who could still be incepted into Wraeththu.

  They walked up to the tall wooden doors, held open with golden hooks to welcome those attending the occasion. Two stone pillars, each topped with a wide granite bowl, flanked the doorway. The bowls held stones, each carved with a different rune. Each har in Freygard had chosen a symbol after his inception and made a pilgrimage to the sea to find the two stones that would represent him in future group settings. They were marked with the har’s symbol and deposited in bowls for the rune-throwing.

  Hroth reached up to a bowl and pulled out an oval, flat stone, dark mossy in colour. Its rune was an ash tree. He wasn’t sure whose rune it was, but for that day’s ritual, it didn’t matter.

  “Let’s sit up front,” Hansggedir suggested.

  “Let’s not!” Hroth argued. “I don’t like being stared at, and I make hara uncomfortable.”

  “Only those who are ignorant. And who cares about them? Come on. I want every damn Freyhellan to see my masterpiece of handiwork.”

  Hroth growled under his breath. “Fine.”

  Golden-haired hara with strong features filled benches three deep. Despite his disquiet, Hroth felt a warmth of pride at seeing his kinshar assembled together. He’d been among the first to offer himself to the exotic creatures who had arrived, an amalgam of the sexes, fey and beautiful. He chatted with a friend he’d not seen in quite some time, until finally Trygve, their hienama, beat his staff against the floor four times. At that, silence claimed the room.

  “Tiahaara,” Trygve intoned, “today we welcome three new hara into our midst. It is the rune-throwing, a time for the spirits to guide these newly through their althaia to the hara with whom they will take their first aruna. Each new har will pick in turn, and that har will come to stand by his side. May the Aghama watch over us and may our new hara grow in light.”

  There was a thrum of excitement as the three newly incepted hara walked forward, each clad in ceremonial garb of leather and fur. The table used for inception three days earlier now stood gleaming on a dais, holding a bowl with the stones of all present.

  One by one the new hara went up and selected a rune. Two ha
d fair hair, and the third one a waterfall of burnished mahogany. Hroth felt his stone heat in his hand as the third har approached the deep bowl and reached in. The Hienama read the three runes: twilight, blood, and ash tree.

  Hroth nudged Hansggedir, spreading open his palm to show that indeed, he had been chosen.

  “I guess I won’t be seeing you for a couple of days,” Hansggedir murmured under his breath.

  “I’ll be busy,” Hroth whispered without thinking. He was stunned and out of sorts; Roc’s prediction had been too direct a portend. “But— why now?”

  “Why not?”

  Hroth shook his head, then stood and walked up to the new hara with the two others chosen until they all stood side by side.

  “Journey well, tiahaara,” Trygve said. The hienama placed a daub of scented oil at the throat of each of new har, symbolizing their sacred seal to Wraeththu. “With your first aruna you will shed completely your human self. Let the celebrations begin!”

  The new har at Hroth’s side gave him a hesitant smile, glanced down at Hroth’s left arm, and then his alarmed gaze flew back up to Hroth’s face.

  “I’ll explain later,” Hroth said.

  He steered the har toward the adjoining room where tables groaned under the weight of food and drink. “What’s your name?”

  “My new one?”

  “That’s the only one now,” Hroth said gently.

  The har flushed, which only added to his refined beauty. “Ottar.”

  “Ottar,” Hroth echoed. “I’m Hroth. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Well, hand,” he said with a wry smile. “Are you from Freygard?”

  Ottar heaped his plate with smoked fish and poured himself a large chalice of mead. “No. I fled from the upcountry. I’d rather not speak of it — I’m ready to leave that behind.”

  He spoke fervently and Hroth felt new gratitude to the spirits who presided over the rune-throwing — and to Roc for having spoken to him on the beach.